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XL on ACL:

Sunday
• Sunday's Photos
• ACLove: Austin At Its Best
• Sunday Photos
• Capsule Reviews
• Recap
• So Long!

Saturday
• Saturday's Photos
• When Pigs Fly
• Capsule Reviews

Friday
• Friday's Photos
• Yeah, baby, yeah!
• Corcoran Reviews
• Capsule Reviews
• Jam Bands

Need-To-Know
• ACL Fest Index
• Band Schedule
• Interactive Stage Layout Map
• Critics' Picks

More XL ACL Reading
• CD Reviews
• Jam-packed
• REM: Still Shiny, Still Happy
• The Many Faces of Al Green
• Stapleton's Sweet Success
• Live music 101, v. 2
• Liz Phair
• Jeff Klein
• Raul Malo
• Rise of Southern Rock
• J.T. Van Zandt
• Beth Orton

XL on ACL: Staff Reviews for Sunday

Kings of Leon, Heineken Stage, noon

Composed mostly of the sons of a traveling Pentecostal preacher, but raised on Neil Young and the Stones, Nashville-based Kings of Leon have created a healthy buzz for their feisty, Southern garage rock. However, the Kings, four Followills who consist of three brothers and a cousin, have disputed critics' attempts to lump them in with the Drive By Truckers and other rowdy outfits giving the Southern rawk thing an update.

They initially provoked other comparisons Sunday, as lead singer Caleb Followill's Prince Valiant haircut and handlebar mustache left one wondering who had booked the Blue Oyster Cult, and the copious cowbell on set opener "Red Morning Light" did nothing to discourage the comparison.

Similarities ended there, however, as did any urge to anoint the Kings as Southern-fried rock saviors. The band tore through a set of punkabilly-flavored garage jams that sounded as influenced by Muscle Shoals as by, say, X. While barnburners such a "Spiral Staircase" hinged on fiery, hypercaffeinated Chuck Berry licks, "Molly Chambers" grooved along on an "Incesticide"-era Nirvana vibe. The band saved the twang — as close to twang as the Kings get, anyway — for stomping closer "Trinity."

Like most family bands who aren't Oasis, the Kings of Leon bring an airtight live show, their chops honed from years of playing before their father's congregations. Considering their background, it was probably fitting that they kicked off Sunday's showcases. While "church of rock" references would be irredeemably hokey, the Kings made believers of more than a few of the ACL faithful. — Jeremy Egner

The Shins, Capital Metro Stage, 12:30 p.m.

Power pop — bright, hooky, power pop — is a great way to start a Sunday. Even when it was overcast or rainy, the Shins shined. The Albuquerque, N.M., four-piece balanced crafty hooks and witty lyrics, packing 17 sharp songs into their one-hour slot.

It didn't hurt that keyboardist/bassist Marty Crandall resembles nothing so much as a thinner, infinitely happier Jack Osbourne. His infectiously charming between-song patter, promising "maximum music," was a sharp contrast to bearded singer/songwriter James Mercer, whose clear, mopey tenor delivered the band's complicated tales of girls, books and the men who like both. Drawing largely on the band's upcoming "Chutes Too Narrow," but touching on older songs such as "Girl on the Wing" and the fabulously titled "Caring is Creepy," the Shins knocked out song after well-formed song, drawing a larger and larger crowd as their set rang on, easily delivering on the promise of maximum music. — Joe Gross

Jack Ingram, Heineken Stage, 1:45 p.m.

Jack Ingram seems to thrive on adversity. Throw a thunderstorm at him, a lousy PA, an indifferent crowd and he and the Beat-Up Ford Band are good for an extra 45 minutes. Perhaps not coincidentally, many of his songs deal with folks doing the best they can in ambiguous circumstances. "Sometimes you want to throw the towel in/But you come out swingin' like you just might win," he sings in one of his most charismatic rockers, the aptly titled "Keep On Keepin' On."

A damp audience on a drizzly afternoon on the last day of a three-day festival, in other words, was just the kind of incentive Ingram needed to crank up the juice a few extra amps. Like many of his protagonists, he's a scrapper who takes pleasure in sticking a thumb into the eye of the status quo.

Drawing mostly from his last album, "Electric," and its offspring EP, "Extra Volts," Ingram put on a gutsy, rocking and too-short show that summoned up comparisons with "Copperhead Road"-era Steve Earle, Tom Petty and even (on the set-closing "Mustang Burn") vintage Rolling Stones. The addition of Bukka Allen on piano and B-3 organ and some push-and-pull interplay between guitarist Jens Pinkernell and the rhythm section lifted Ingram and his band above and beyond the Texas country-rock pigeonhole to which they are too often assigned. — John T. Davis

Lucinda Williams, Cingular Stage, 2:30 p.m.

"OK, Lucinda, kick it out of mid-tempo hell." The speaker was a highly regarded local guitarist who was discoursing on Lucinda Williams' decision to start her highly anticipated set at the Cingular stage with: a song about a deceased friend ("Drunken Angel"); a dreamy tone poem about driving down the Pacific Coast Highway ("Ventura"); and a bitter lament about a short and not-so-sweet affair ("Those Three Days"). Not exactly your typical kick-off, barn-burner rockfest material.

But those who have followed the one-time Austinite over the years have learned to trust her judgment, and the often circuitous thought patterns that form it. The woman nearly always knows what she's doing, even if the process may be bewildering. Sure enough, Williams (sphinxlike behind dark glasses, in a pink New York Dolls T-shirt with a Toltec serpent tattoo crawling up her left arm) brought her considerable gifts into sharp, abrupt focus with the snakecharmer shuffle of "Righteously." Her coarsely sensuous vocal ("Get excited and bite my neccck. Get me all worked up like thaaat," she drawled) was at once beckoning and forbidding. The song served as a stark counterpoint to the lovely, swaying blues ballad, "Still I Long For Your Kiss," the plaintive, seductively dangerous plea of "Essence" and the growling field holler of "Joy."

The twangy country-rock tribute to six-string gypsies, "Real Live Bleeding Fingers and Broken Guitar Strings" seemed to be percolating along nicely as well, when the song suddenly broke down and Williams began cussing a blue streak (on mic, no less) that would have made a Marine blush. It seemed that a page of lyrics in the "security blanket" book of songs that she keeps in front of her had been misplaced, and she suffered one of those deer-in-the-headlight moments that performers dread. (Backstage afterward, considerably abashed, she could laugh at herself.)

Perhaps by way of atonement — it being Sunday, after all — she got back in the pocket with a set-closing "Get Right With God," featuring a stinging bottleneck guitar solo from Ben Harper's Innocent Criminals guitarist Marc Ford. Lyrical glitch aside, the set marked one of Williams' finest performances in Austin in years. Now, if someone will just Velcro those lyric sheets down. — John T. Davis

G. Love & Special Sauce, Capital Metro Stage, 2:30 p.m.

A favorite at last year's ACL festival, the perpetually chilled out G. Love & Special Sauce brought their loose and funky backporch blooze to the Capital Metro Stage Sunday afternoon.

G. Love (born Garrett Dutton) came out with alt-pop singer-songwriter Jack Johnson, and the pair kicked things off with a couple of pleasant acoustic strummers. It was after Johnson left, however, that the set really took off. Early audio problems — the thick bass drowned out pretty much everything — were solved before they became too much of a distraction, but there isn't much that could obscure G. Love. So many singer-songwriter types have copped Dutton's hip-hop-flavored, Anglo-scat style, it's easy to forget how fresh it can sound. A master showman, he dazzled on fire-breathing harmonica and guitar solos, and prowled the stage flaunting a flair for freestyle rhyming when he wasn't playing. One minute "Baby's Got Sauce," a slow, swinging tune "to the ladies," seemed to calm things down, the next, G. Love was scraping his guitar against his amp and using the mic as a slide for a feedback-drenched solo.

Of course there can be too much of a good thing. The dreaded solo montage, which came complete with a Frampton-esque vocoder interlude, tested all but the most dedicated groovers (yo G., we only have an hour), but the still-irresistible "Cold Beverages" redeemed.

The band closed with a country-fried ode to the feminine form. There's not much I can say about its vulgar charms other than to note that when it began, as if on cue, a sky ad for the Yellow Rose Cabaret came zooming into view. ACL: Feel the magic. — Jeremy Egner

Ed Harcourt, Austin Ventures Stage, 2:50 p.m.

What a difference a band makes.

At Ed Harcourt's solo appearance during SXSW last March, the 25-year-old singer-songwriter's spare, acoustic "death pop" impressed critics while underwhelming audiences. But Sunday afternoon, that same death pop came alive. Harcourt's touring band — a guitarist, a drummer, an upright bassist and a trumpeter — infused ominous songs like "Beneath the Heart of Darkness" and "He's Building a Swamp" with a vibrance that even the gloomy weather couldn't put a damper on.

Unfortunately, the gloomy weather was probably the only thing making the English native feel at home. To begin with, a microphone problem delayed his start by nearly 15 minutes. This wouldn't have been a big deal had he been slotted for more than 40, but he wasn't, so it was. To make matters worse, a bit of less-than-perfect scheduling put Harcourt on a small stage squarely between two louder ones, both of which were occupied for the duration of his set. I'm not sure what he said in between songs, but Lucinda Williams sure sounded good.

Maybe the ACL organizers can do something to make it up to young Ed — a spot on the show, perhaps? In any case, here's hoping that he'll be back again soon — and that he brings his band with him. — Josh Eells

Ben Kweller, Heineken Stage, 3:30 p.m.

Never let it be said that Ben Kweller doesn't deliver for his fans. In front of a good-size throng at the Heineken Stage, Kweller came out and told the crowd that he realized that his ACL date was "the last concert of the official world tour," so he and the band would play his latest album, "Sha Sha," from beginning to end, "just like Phish does." The crowd, as you might imagine, sounded thrilled.

After playing a strong new song, Kweller made good on his promise. Absent nearly any onstage patter, he and his band ran through "Sha Sha" with hooky verve and teenage fire (well, approximately; Kweller is in his early 20s). Hearing the songs back to back, you realize just how much Weezer changed this kid's life. Songs like "Wasted But Ready" and "Family Tree" are worth their weight in Buddy Holly glasses and Pinkertons. Not that Kweller's songs don't hold up on their own; they do. But he's still young enough that he can't help but remind you of some of his elders. — Joe Gross

Polyphonic Spree, H-E-B Stage, 3:30 p.m.

Interesting fact about laughter: The difference between joyous giggles and derisive chuckles is pretty trivial in the face of two dozen well-amplified true believers. Judging from the wide, toothy smiles all around, there were more of the former than the latter greeting the Polyphonic Spree, a group that was a "you have to see this!" experience even for those who weren't sold on the music.

The sky was completely overcast, but that didn't keep bandleader/spiritual director Tim DeLaughter from pointing up frequently to where the sun should be, praising its uplifting effects while three rows of choir members wagged their heads blissfully. It was 15 minutes into the set before DeLaughter came back to Earth and realized just how many people were watching him: "Oh my gosh," he said, with what sounded like genuine shock, at the field of dumbfounded listeners. Then he revved up the mini-orchestra again — French Horn, flute, harp and Theremin joining for a car crash in zillion-part harmony.

The set flagged a bit at the halfway point — pure quasi-religious ecstasy is a hard thing to coax out of a groove-minded hippie nation — but found its feet again toward the end, with three or four strong songs full of choral "ba-da-dum-bum-bum"s and giddy bouncing. Listeners who stuck around for more than curiosity-seeking (and there were many) left knowing they had seen something as heartfelt as it was unique. — John DeFore

Yo La Tengo, Capital Metro Stage, 4:30 p.m.

There's not much you can say about Yo La Tengo that hasn't been said already. Among the cognoscenti, the genius of the Hoboken, N.J., trio's adventurous blend of distortion-drenched, avant-garde sensibility and impeccable pop craftsmanship is pretty much undisputed.

Fans of the band know to check their requests at the gate of a Yo La Tengo show. As an act that's recorded prolifically since 1986, the band has a raft of truly killer songs, any or none of which may show up in concert. Sunday, the band drew heavily from 1997's transcendent "I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One," with top-notch renditions of "Deeper into Movies," impeccable power pop pleaser "Tom Courtney" and sunny Beach Boys cover "Little Honda."

The latter, especially, demonstrated that for all its compositional skills, Yo La Tengo has never met a song it didn't want to smash to pieces. "Little Honda" coasted along on its own droning yet buoyant groove before collapsing into a swirling cacophony of distortion and fuzz, frontman Ira Kaplan wielding his guitar like a saber to achieve the perfect level of ear-splitting fury. "Big Day Coming" and the set closer, an inspired, neo-loungy version of Sun Ra's "Nuclear War," got the same treatment.

The meltdowns were visceral wonders to behold, both aurally and visually as the band scrambled about, switching instruments to build the walls of noise, but they each could have been significantly shorter as well. They were offset by lovely, meditative tunes such as "Season of the Shark" and "Tears Are in Your Eyes," as well as by the surprisingly hilarious pop star mockery "Nothing But You and Me," which featured the band dancing "n sync" to its own pre-recorded music.

I suppose Yo La Tengo should be applauded for filling much of an hourlong festival set with the sort of beautiful racket that is so central to its ethos. The fact that I would have liked to hear a couple more, oh, I don't know, actual songs probably means I just didn't get it. They are geniuses, after all. — Jeremy Egner

Jack Johnson, Cingular Stage, 4:30

Jack Johnson's ACL show was a whole lot like Austin: laid-back, ethnically and culturally diverse, left-of-center but not confrontational about it — and way too crowded. When the dreamy surfer-turned-songster crooned, "Slow down, people, you're moving too fast," he must not have been paying attention to the unnavigable sea of fans before him, made up of everyone from coffeehouse-ers to Kappas to couples with kids.

Sandwiched on the schedule between Ben Harper and G. Love & Special Sauce, Johnson split the difference between them musically as well, breezing through a dozen of his characteristically innocuous roots-pop delights. G. Love himself even dropped by to collaborate on a low-key rendition of his own "Stepping Stone" (an appropriate choice, since it was GL&SS's recording of the Johnson-penned "Rodeo Clowns" that got Jack noticed in the first place). It was a lovely, love-filled affair: The guys smiled, the girls swooned, and the couples, well, did what couples do.

In fact, the only hitch in the show came at the very end, when Johnson left the stage five minutes ahead of schedule — before an audience who knew he was five minutes ahead of schedule — just so they'd bring him back out again.

A premeditated encore? Jack, Jack, Jack -- that's so not Austin. — Josh Eells

The Mighty Sincere Voices of Navasota, American Original Stage, 5:30 p.m.

ACL organizers must have been impressed by The Mighty Sincere Voices of Navasota's opening set at last year's festival, since the family gospel band was moved to a higher-profile Sunday afternoon slot this year.

Led by 64-year-old patriarch Willie Creeks, the group features his son as the mainstay of an ensemble that mixes soul, gospel, call-and-response, testimony and R&B into one reverent whole. As their name states, they hail from the same East Texas town that gave rise to one of the state's greatest bluesmen, Mance Lipscomb. Must be something in the water out there. And, yes, they are in fact, mighty sincere.

The group brought their set to a simmer with the slow-rolling "Do You Know Him" and "Jesus Hired Me (And I Sure Do Like My Job)," before popping the clutch on a furiously rocking 15-minute medley built around "Shout It Out" and "Holy Roller," before cooling off the crowd (hungover sinners, mostly, and badly in need of some devotional attention) with a measured, soulful version of "Peace In the Valley" and a jaunty set-closing rendition of "Jesus, Hear My Plea." All that was missing was the Mourner's Bench and the collection plate. — John T. Davis

Ween, Capital Metro Stage, 6:30 p.m.

Ween's Sunday set was as close to a predictable show that the quirky band from New Hope, Pa., is capable of playing — unless you count a ridiculously loud bass mix as far-out. Opening with "Buckingham Green" from their neglected masterpiece "The Mollusk," Gene and Dean Ween hit on all the crowd faves, from "Spinal Meningitis" to "Voodoo Lady" to "Can't Put My Finger On It," without really stirring the crowd. What most people don't know about Ween is that they want to be arena rock stars — and given the forum, in front of what looked to be at least 20,000 fans, they played up the obvious. But it's certain that the Saturday crowd at Stubb's got the real Ween experience.

Oh, but this group has a secret weapon, a song whose three word title can't be printed, though the first word is "You" and the last one is "Up." It's a rocker as hard as any, with blunt sentiments that would make die-hard punk rockers go "whoa." The band's hour was saved by this forceful finale and, for five minutes, the band became the rock stars and the audience reinforced that dream. — Michael Corcoran

Ben Harper, Cingular Stage, 6:30 p.m.

Ben Harper, like Elvis and Chris Carrabba, is one of those musicians who inspire a following bordering on messianic. As a result, his faithful treat him the same way a high school teacher treats the smart kid: He doesn't always have to be perfect, he just has to not mess up.

On Sunday night, Ben Harper did not mess up. He mixed old favorites like "Excuse Me Mr." and the requisite encore "Steal My Kisses" with newer favorites-to-be like "Diamonds on the Inside." He let his Innocent Criminals run wild, stretching the first four songs into 40 sweaty, jam-filled minutes. He brought out sacred steel guitarist Robert Randolph, one of the darlings of this year's festival, for a pas de deux on "Temporary Remedy." He served up an impassioned medley of "Sexual Healing" and "Let's Get It On" that was so steamy even Marvin might have blushed. And he did it all with a vivacity that blew even the clouds away (all, that is, except for the herbal-scented one that settled over the crowd during "Burn One Down").

Harper didn't need to be perfect. But he wasn't too far off. — Josh Eells

Kermit Ruffins, American Original Stage, 7 p.m.

"ACL's" Terry Lickona introduced trumpeter Kermit Ruffins with the suggestion that next year's fest might benefit from a heavier dose of New Orleans, and the response bore that out: Five minutes after Ruffins' quintet started up, the light crowd under the American Original tent had doubled, and five minutes after that, many were dancing in front of the stage. The brass-heavy music proved plenty strong to overcome any noise bleed from Ben Harper's stage to the west, though the tent's acoustics weren't entirely kind to the ensemble's electric piano.

Fortunately, that wasn't the most important secondary instrument; Corey Henry's trombone was the sauce in Ruffins' stew, laying a broad getting-to-know-you solo atop the groove on "Chicken and Dumplings" and wailing luridly on "Kermit's Second Line." Late in the set, Henry nodded to the festival's star with a lite funk Al Green cover.

The trumpeter's lip kicked into gear on "If You're a Viper," a reefer-friendly tune that was especially well received here, but his occasional singing never seemed quite worth the effort. Nevertheless, Ruffins' easy good-timing shtick went over well, with listeners bringing him back for an encore medley of swinging R&B numbers like "Caledonia" — but only after an emcee made them promise to head straight to the Waterloo tent afterward to pick up the band's latest album. — John DeFore

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